Nov 30, 2009

Trouble Sleeping?



Ironically, I couldn’t go to bed until I bitched about something for a second. So here it is…

FLAME ON

I am constantly amused by the advertisements that the health industry puts out these days. It’s easy to drone out during commercials and completely ignore their messages, and I do it 99% of the time. Last night, in between walking from letting my dog out to my office, that 1% kicked in, and I walked over to the TV to catch the rest of the commercial. I heard a list of horrible side effects, and wanted to catch the name of the latest and greatest over-the-counter drug that was going to help me do something better while making the other things going on in my life 10x worse. This particular commercial happened to be promoting a drug called AmBien, or Zolpidem Tartrate for all you science dorks out there.

I went to my room and looked up this drug. It is basically intended to help you sleep. According to AmBien’s website,

AMBIEN CR is indicated to help you fall asleep and/or stay asleep. AMBIEN is indicated for short-term treatment to help you fall asleep.”

Hmm, sounds like a good deal. I take the pill. I sleep better. But let’s take a little look at the side effects, which are also posted on their website, and relayed verbatim from the commercial:

IMPORTANT SAFETY INFORMATION

AMBIEN and AMBIEN CR are treatment options you and your doctor can consider along with lifestyle changes. When taking either of them, don’t drive or operate machinery. Plan to devote 7 to 8 hours to sleep before being active. Sleepwalking, and eating or driving while not fully awake, with memory loss for the event, as well as abnormal behaviors such as being more outgoing or aggressive than normal, confusion, agitation, and hallucinations may occur. Don’t take it with alcohol as it may increase these behaviors. In patients with depression, worsening of depression, including risk of suicide may occur. If you experience any of these behaviors contact your doctor immediately. Allergic reactions such as shortness of breath, swelling of your tongue or throat, may occur and in rare cases may be fatal. If you have an allergic reaction while using AMBIEN or AMBIEN CR, contact your doctor immediately. Side effects of AMBIEN CR may include next-day drowsiness, dizziness and headache. There is a low occurrence of side effects associated with the short-term use of AMBIEN. The most commonly observed side effects in controlled clinical trials were drowsiness, dizziness, and diarrhea. AMBIEN is taken for 7 to 10 days –or longer as advised by your provider. AMBIEN CR can be taken as long as your doctor recommends. AMBIEN and AMBIEN CR have some risk of dependency. They are non-narcotic.

It is easy to skim through the wall of text on their website and not pay attention to anything. It’s even easier to ignore the description of the side effects when you’re watching the TV ad because you are distracted by the old couple playing in the tire swing montage while sucking on ice cream cones. It is followed by the dude in the phone booth filled up with $100 bills that he is frantically trying to stuff in his pants while furiously popping the next best sleep aide pill. But I’m going to take the time to create a list of the side effects, and let you read through them in an easier manner.

So here we go.

PROs:

Helps you fall asleep and/or stay asleep.

CONs:

  • Don’t drive or operate machinery
  • Plan to devote 7 to 8 hours to sleep before being active
  • Sleepwalking
  • Avoid eating or driving while not fully awake
  • Memory loss
  • Abnormal behaviors such as being more outgoing or aggressive than normal
  • Confusion
  • Agitation
  • Hallucinations
  • Don’t take it with alcohol as it may increase these behaviors
  • In patients with depression, worsening of depression, including risk of suicide may occur.
  • SUICIDE?!?!
  • [If you experience any of these behaviors contact your doctor immediately.] Ha. Right.
  • Allergic reactions
  • Shortness of breath
  • Swelling of your tongue or throat
  • In rare cases may be fatal
  • FATAL?!?!
  • Side effects of AMBIEN CR may include next-day drowsiness
  • Dizziness
  • Headache
  • [There is a low occurrence of side effects associated with the short-term use of AMBIEN.] Phew, and I was worried about putting a shotgun in my mouth for a second.
  • The most commonly observed side effects in controlled clinical trials were drowsiness, dizziness, and diarrhea.
  • DIARRHEA?!?! Noooooooooooooooooo!
  • AMBIEN and AMBIEN CR have some risk of dependency.
  • [They are non-narcotic.] Should this go in the PROs? Nah, I’ll leave it here.

I’ll cut straight to the cheese on this one. If you take this pill, there is a possibility that you will kill yourself, die, or have a massive diarrhea explosion. I’m not one of those people that stand outside the pharmacy with a pitchfork and burning torch and call for the heads of anyone that bottles these pills up, but at some point, you just have to ask yourself how fucking stupid these ads are. I wouldn’t make a big deal about it if it was just one commercial and I never saw it again. But this kind of crap is on the TV everyday, and has been, for years. To be fair and honest, they should display the side effects in the commercial as well. [WARNING: VIVID IMAGARY INCOMING!!!!!!] Instead of showing Joe Blow playing with his kids and swinging around the merry-go-round with smiles from ear to ear, they should show Joe Blow crouched over in the fetal position in the bathtub spraying fecal matter all over himself uncontrollably and cursing himself for not being able to just pass out and sleep through the entire fiasco because the sleeping pill he took last night gave him a full eight hours of rest.

Fuck me. On that note, I'm going to bed.

FLAME OFF



The Crystal Skull



Over the weekend I was presented with the opportunity to wet my taste buds with some delicious vodka from a crystal skull. I’m not a big vodka fan, however, it is a necessary ingredient of Bloody Mary’s, so I had to make amends with the vodka Gods a long time ago to make this all work out. Even if you despise vodka, it has a surprisingly good taste to it. Compared to Korski or Kamchatka, the crystal skull juices would be like honey, whereas your favorite $10 jug of Russian moonshine would be like dipping your head in Ohio River and taking a gulp. The box has a fun saying on it, which almost makes me nervous to even shelter this phenomenon in my freezer. It reads:

“One of the most compelling archeological mysteries is the story of the Crystal heads. These heads are believed to be between 5,000 and 35,000 years old and were carved over a period of several hundred years but without any tool marks. In fact their very construction defies the laws of physics and common logic. They are believed to offer spiritual power to those who hold or possess them.”

Score.



The top of the box reads:

“In reverence of those enlightened after touching any of the thirteen crystal heads unearthed around our globe we offer this pure spirit.”

I wonder what these special spiritual powers actual consist of? The results are still inconclusive, but after a little bit of investigating on Saturday night, here are some of the conclusions I have drawn up so far.

Crystal Skull Power #1: Grants the imbiber the ability to send text messages at 3am that they will totally not remember until the next morning.

Crystal Skull Power #2: Grants the beholder the power to completely destroy his kitchen, living room, bath room, and any other room in the house, unknowingly. The aftermath will take days to clean up.

Crystal Skull Power #3: Grants the poor soul the inability to perform basic functions the following day of consuming the contents. This individual will be confined to a bed or couch for a 24 hour period and will require at least 500 oz. of fluids to keep vital signs positive.

I will post any new findings as research and weekends allow. Cheers.

Nov 28, 2009

Thanksgiving on a Friday



I successfully accomplished the following things yesterday:

· Went to a buffalo farm.

· Saw a buffalo.

· Saw a chicken.

· Saw a goat.

· Went to a turkey farm.

· Mashed some potatoes.

· Found a dictionary that had the words "cocksucker" and "motherfucker" in it.

· Ate a bunch of good food.

· Had the following conversation with my mom:

o Me - "Did you just say donkey?"

o Mom - "Yeah."

o Me - "More like a donkey punch."

o Mom - Laughs.

o Me - "Now...if I could donkey punch a buffalo, I could cross two things off my list of things to do today."

· Told my grandma about a stripper pole I used to have in my house.

· Had the following conversation with my grandpa:

o Grandpa - "Did Michigan beat Ohio State? Hahaha."

o Me - "You know, I knew your birthday was last Saturday, which was also the day of The Game, and I was going to call you and wish you a happy birthday, but I didn't. I kind of felt bad about it, but now I don't anymore."

o Everyone - Laughter.

· Saw that my grandpa has his jacket on inside out, in which my grandmother got in her car and said, "Never a dull moment."

· Verified that both of my grandparents have driver's licenses.

· Watched football and slipped in and out of consciousness several times.

· Drank out least 10 Diet Cokes.

· Told my mom to [censored] her dog's [censored] so that his tummy ache would go away or else she should take him to the vet and have them [censored] his [censored].

· Managed to get to a gas station to fill up my car that was 5 miles away even though my car said I had 3 miles worth of gas left.

· Saw an Indian working at a gas station that smelled funny and had a thick, full-blown uni-brow.

· Watched Bo squeeze out a turn in my backyard.

· Took a shower.

· Put up my Christmas tree in approximately 10 seconds.

· Possibly convinced someone that by giving $5 to a stranger that she may have unknowingly invited a serial killer into her apartment.

· Hung out with some friends and shared tales of buffalo, Bigfoot, stripper poles, aliens, demons, Mel Brooks, Mel Gibson, candy canes, banjo strings, dancing (or lack of), serial killers, urban legends, Dayton's last mayor (which was a man, and black by the way), nice smelling corn syrup production factories, bad smelling paper producing factories, a diary that some lady name Bridget Jones writes in, and more buffalo.

-----

All in all, a pretty good day.

Nov 27, 2009

Black Friday





It's Black Friday. And that means it's time for Black Sunshine. Juice this up on your iPod, set it to repeat, and punch some fat bitch in the face at Wal-Mart. I'll be paying out $10 for every jawbone someone brings me. $20 for the skull attached to the spine, Predator style. The clock is a tickin'.



Nov 26, 2009

Hello Heisman!























Dear Santa,
I would like a Charles Woodson jersey for Christmas.
Warmest regards,
Kyle

(And in case all you Suckeyes out there forgot what college team he played for, here's this little gem.)



Don't Eat Too Much Turkey Today!

Nov 25, 2009

Maintenance

I'm messing around with the look of the site so don't shit a brick if it looks weird for the next few days.

I don’t sing. I don’t dance.



I don’t sing. I don’t dance.

I don’t sing. I don’t dance.

I don’t sing. I don’t dance.

Last night, I was invited to go to a wedding by a FRIEND of mine. I immediately agreed, but under three stipulations. #1: I don’t sing. #2: I don’t dance. #3: Find me an angel investor and someone that owns a meat shop that can combine forces and potentially get my beef jerky business off the ground. She complied.

In general, I’m a pretty confident guy. I have been through a few situations that put this confidence to the test, such as the time a thug put a gun to my head and threatened to pull the trigger in the middle of a party I was throwing. Naturally, I defused the situation with my boyish good looks and sparkling wit, but nonetheless, I kept my cool. Another time, I saved a girl from drowning at the YMCA during a pool party for my baseball team when I was maybe 11 or 12 years old. Again, death was in the air, and I saved the day. (Both true stories).

Every superhero has their Kryptonite. Mine happens to be singing and dancing. I don’t like to sing. I don’t like to dance. To put this into perspective, imagine that you are standing in a room with a hula hoop around you. The hula hoop forms a protective bubble around you that shields you from all of the things in the outside world that might bring you harm or make u feel uncomfortable. Now imagine something that would make you a little nervous. The hula hoop shrinks a little bit. It is still there, but the bubble around you isn’t as big as it used to be. Now think about something that would really stress you out-something that would really scare the shit of you. Since a lot of folks would rather die than stand up in front of a group of people and give a speech, I’ll use this as a perfect example. Let’s say you were condemned with having to give a speech, and this is your worst nightmare. That hula hoop that you were wearing just turned into a belt, pulled a couple notches deep, snug around your waist. In the anticipation of giving the speech, and realizing this fear, the hula hoop belt gradually gets tighter, notch-by-notch. When you get up to deliver the speech finally, the belt is pulled as far as it can go, to the last notch. It’s hard to breath. There is no bubble to protect you. You are way out of your comfort zone. Sweat begins to drip down your face. The world caves in. Everything isn’t as it seemed to be. You start to panic. You want to run out of the room, displacing the consequences of your evacuation.

The same example can be applied to what goes through my mind when someone asks me to dance. This feeling has been an on-going thorn in my side that was developed early on, going way back to the dances that were held in my grade school. You know, the ones where the girls stood on one side of the gym and the boys stood on the other. Well while that was all going on, I was in the cafeteria by the punch bowl, wandering aimlessly outside or in the bathroom, or doing anything I could to keep my hula hoop from turning into a boa constrictor that wanted to suck that last dying breath out of my lungs.

I don’t really have an explanation for it. I just can’t handle being put into a situation where I am asked to dance. The dance strategies I had in grade school went right along with me to high school. As a football player, I was required to go to the Homecoming dance. High school pretty much required me to go to every other dance that was being held, including [puke in my mouth] prom. The whole idea of doing something I absolutely didn’t want to do along with something I perceived to be a “stupid, waste of time and money” really didn’t add up to a successful event in my mind. The thought of having to be put in a situation where I would be asked to dance was obviously the worst idea ever imaginable. The acts that led up to this, such as getting a tux, or dress clothes for that matter, picking up the girl, meeting her parents, doing the whole pin the flower on the coat shenanigans, driving to the dance and explaining why I’m pale and sweating buckets, and the post-dance explanation of coming up with a story about why I suddenly vanished for 3 hours, are not what I would really describe as having a good time.

Some people like to dance. Some people will dance all night, and party until their brains fall out. That’s cool with me. If the lights dim, and “Footloose” kicks in full blast, go ahead and dance, dance dance dance dance dance. That’s not me though. I don’t like to dance.

To this day, I still find myself getting put into situations where I am required, or at least expected to dance. The invitation to the wedding next summer is no exception. I’m not going to do it, no way. Put a gun to my head. Let me go save the drowning girl. I’ll put a clown suit on and tell jokes all night. I’ll bend over and shine your shoes, and everyone’s shoes. But I’m not going to dance. My ultimate nightmare would be participating in a dance at my wedding, if I were to ever get married. That thought of having to dance, especially in front of everyone I know, is mind boggling. Is it possible to just skip the dancing part? What if I planned the whole wedding? Shit, I’ll even play “Canon in D” on the pipe organ, on a violin, or even on the bagpipes while everyone is waiting for the bride to come out, and I wouldn’t think twice about it. Can I please just not have to dance?

At any note, this was all just a bunch of rambling before I kicked off another segment of “It’s Motherfuckin’ Hump Day, 224 Kiefaber Blast From The Past” Wednesday blog.

Continuing with the theme of dancing, one of my fondest memories of college was the bittersweet feeling of pure joy and disgrace that the Stripper Pole in our living room brought to all of our hearts on a daily basis. There was quite a bit of planning and construction that went into making this beast of beasts a living reality, and I am a true believer that it paid the price for its short lived lifespan.

During one of the summer weekends, UD held it’s Alumni weekend. Since our house was in prime UD Ghetto-we’re close to all the bars-we’re the only people living on campus during the summer-we like to party-we are the best thing that ever happened and will ever happen to you-locations, needless to say, there were quite a few alumnus that trolled through our humble abode, which just so happened to feature a Stripper Pole. First and foremost, I am not a fan of strippers. I’ll just get that out right now. They don’t have souls, and I don’t enjoy going to strip clubs, even though I’ve been to many, in multiple countries. But one thing I happen to enjoy is watching older ladies, professional ladies, the kind of ladies that would potentially be my boss, or hold some high ranking position that would put all their creditability to risk if someone was to write about their debauchery in a blog years later, and may have just so happened to posted a picture of them doing so in said blog. Either way, this stripper pole made them go nuts. And boy, did they love to dance.

A mental image that is burned in my mind would be that of staring at a half-dozen 40-something year old women try to do something on this stripper pole for a minute, then realizing that I need another drink, only to walk to the kitchen to see a 40 to 50-something year old man and woman embracing each other in the back of my kitchen, and watching as the dude slowly slid his hand up the back of her shirt and unbutton her bra with one hand. Ummm. Yeah. [Flash forward 2 hours, and this same duo pounded on my bedroom door and begged me for a condom, so I reached into Mr. Cheek’s desk drawer and pitched them one of his Trojan Magnums. The dude and the “chick” both gave me the same startled, confused, bewildered, embarrassed look, in which I replied, “Hey baby, it’s for the girth, not the length.” The guy seemed to get that, and they went on their merry way.] Back to the kitchen, I get my drink, and continue to watch the freak show unfold before my eyes for the rest of the night, and then I go up to bed, momentarily get interrupted, and slip into a mild coma. The next morning, I sat on the couch and stared at the aftermath that was UD Alumni Weekend/Stripper fest. Then I went to Subway. Then I came back home, and sat on the couch. While I was biting into my cold cut trio, I heard a knock on what was left of my front door. Well kiss my ass; it is one of the dames from last night. Wearing the same clothes as the night before, at that. She came up to me and thanked me for the good time she had the night before, and then proceeded to give me her business card. Then she smiled, and faded into the distance. I’ve never dropped a foot long sub before, but I dropped the one I was holding that day, I can assure you. Her business card detailed her name, and then said “VP, Financial Company XYZ, I’m pretty much a big shot in the professional world, but I just made a fool out of myself on your stripper pole last night. Hugs and kisses, Dumbass. P.S. Let’s hope that Trojan Magnum you gave the random old man holds up.”

72 hour rule is over.



I hate Ohio State.

“When your team is winning, be ready to be tough, because winning can make you soft; on the other hand, when your team is losing, stick by them. Keep believing.” – Bo Schembechler.

The year was 2003. I was a sophomore in college. When I walked out of Michigan Stadium on a beautiful November day, after a 35-21 Michigan victory over the defending National Champion Ohio State Buckeyes, you could not wipe the smile off of my face. I drove back to Dayton with two of my college friends, one a U-M fan, the other, an unfortunate OSU fan. The entire ride back from Ann Arbor we listened to Queen’s “We are the Champions.” Full blast. Windows down. On repeat. For two and a half hours. We got back to UD and I partied my ass off that night. I had on my Invincible Cape, stood on top of my Crystal Palace, and life could not get better.

Fast forward six years. To describe what it has been like to be a die-hard Michigan football supporter living in Ohio on a daily basis could be summed up simply as standing on the wrong side of shit hitting the fan. And I’m not talking about a couple of rabbit turds getting chucked into a desk fan every few seconds. I’m talking about digesting the massive triceratops shit pile from Jurassic Park through an industrial-sized fan on full blast—60 mph, right in the teeth.

To combat the onslaught of dung hitting me in the face every single day and being curb stomped by some fat, slobbering bandwagon Buckeye idiot, I took up the “knowledge is power” approach, AKA a sport snob. By definition, according to Urban Dictionary, a sport snob is “someone who believes that their vast and ultimately unnecessary knowledge of sports makes them a better sports watcher. They will often ridicule, or speak condescendingly towards someone of lesser sports knowledge.” Unnecessary knowledge or not, I’ll be damned if I’m going to be ridiculed for wearing a Michigan t-shirt in public by someone wearing scarlet and gay colors that they snagged off the $1 rack at Goodwill. Hey guess what, buddy, I heard that “Michigan sucks” remark as you walked passed me, and if you turn around waiting for my response, get ready to be verbally raped. “Who do you guys play next week? Oh you don’t know? How about name me three players on the current roster? Don’t know that either? Who is the coach? [Insert obscenities here].”

To become the Michigan sport snob that I would consider myself to be, I initiated an obsess---, err, a hobby, with staying caught-up on the latest wolverine football news, reading books on the U-M/OSU rivalry, and constantly refreshing a dozen U-M blogs, websites, and forums every spare chance I got. To say the least, I have a pretty good grasp on things going on at the Big House, how recruiting is going, stats for the players, the Vegas line on upcoming games, you name it. And mind you, this primarily took place during the past five-year winless, frustrating, hair-pulling, nail-biting, random object throwing, door punching, turning cell phone off during games, binge drinking, anti-social, totally unapproachable, yet exciting time of my life.

Looking back on these past few years, I’ve come to the realization that all Ohio State fans are the same. They are assholes. Plain and simple. Not only did ESPN crown them as one of the rudest fan bases in all of college football (if not sports), I have a few personal encounters I would like to share. First and foremost, I can remember clear as day walking to the BW3s on UD’s campus to catch the first game of the ’07 season with my fellow Go-Blue buddy, Murphy. As we walked from his place in our Michigan gear, we immediately were greeted with negative comments from practically every college student within shouting distance. “Go buckeyes!” “Michigan sucks.” “You guys are duechebags!” You get the idea. As we walked into the bar, I looked up in horror to see App State beating the #5 Wolverines in the first quarter. Then it occurred to me, which wasn’t really a surprise, but we were surrounded by a red army of laughing, finger pointing assholes. I can’t remember if we even stayed for a drink, but if we did, I chugged it and got the hell out of there. We got back to Murphy’s place and watched the remaining game on his laptop. In the waning moments, I saw an update that we had drove the ball down the field, in perfect field goal position. All we needed was to kick this to win. I stared at the screen and waited for the score to update to show that Michigan had won. But it didn’t. Game over. Michigan loses. Biggest upset of anything ever. Yadda yadda yadda. I never heard the end of it after that day. And still don’t. Enter the catalyst of my Ohio State fan hatred.

During my senior year of college, I took a communication class that required showing up an hour each week for half a semester. The syllabus essentially stated that the requirements for this course was to a) not be retarded and b) stand up in front of the class and give a speech. As I read this, I began to ponder what I would talk about for a few minutes in front of a bunch of strangers. I was drawing a blank until I caught something that the instructor said. Wait a second, what was that? She’s an Ohio State alum? Bingo. Topic for my speech = Why Michigan is better than OSU. For the remainder of the course, I busted my ass researching facts, practicing my speech, and developing a convincing, yet fact-based speech on my love-fest for Michigan. I nailed the speech, which by far was the best in the class. What grade did I get, from the OSU alum you might ask? B+. That’s right, B+. I could have talked about how I enjoyed to smell my own farts for 5 minutes and pulled an easy A-. Whatever.

Another incident that comes to mind was a few years later, while I was shopping for some pre-gaming supplies at Kroger for the kickoff to the ’08 season. At about 9am in the morning, as I’m strolling through the produce section in my Michigan t-shirt, a random guy with an Ohio State jersey walked straight up to me, looked me in the eye, and said, “FUCK Michigan.” With his wife and daughter standing next to him, I quickly responded with a “Oh REALLY?! Well FUCK YOU! ASSHOLE!” just loud enough for probably everyone else in the store to hear. Seriously, in Kroger? At 9am in the fucking morning? You have got to be shitting me.

The list goes on and on. If I go to the gas station to pay for gas or pick up some beers, and I’ve got anything Michigan on, and I flash my Ohio ID, I typically get some snide remark like “Oh, well it looks like you’re in the wrong state, now aren’t ya?!” You know what, your absolutely correct there Brutus, I am, and you work at a gas station. I used to have a Michigan themed credit card. I paid that off and cut it up for fiscal responsibility reasons, but I’d be a liar if I said I didn’t take shit for it anytime I bought something. Maybe I ask for it by showing support for my team, year-round. But I also don’t go on a head hunting vendetta to insult anyone I can that provides any inclination that they cheer for Ohio State. Maybe I should.

For all the beatings that I’ve taken throughout the last 0-6 streak, I’ve held my head high, loaded up the sport snob knowledge base for quick, educated comebacks at any second, and counted down the days until Meeeeechigan would be victorious again. When I bought my house, I painted the walls Michigan colors for a reason. I named my puppy “Bo” for a reason. I threw away the nice scarlet and gray shirt I got for Christmas from an ex-girlfriend years ago and told her I lost it for a reason. So if you’re a OSU fan, and you’re gloating on you’re big win last weekend, just keep in mind that I’m ready for any shit talkin’ you want to bring to the table. I have a good feeling the future will be good. I mean, out of the 309 yards of offense Michigan put up on the best defense in the world, 299 of those were contributed from FRESHMAN.

I opened with a quote from Bo Schembechler and I’ll close it with one.

“What the mind can conceive, the mind can achieve and those who stay will be champions.” GO BLUE!


Nov 24, 2009

Why do some people walk really slow?



















  1. Why do the people that walk really slow - continue to walk slow - even after they realize that someone who walks really fast and is stuck behind them and is waiting for them to a) get out of the way b) walk fast or c) spontaneously combust.
  2. Why do fast walkers get stuck behind slow walkers at the most inconvientant or awkward times possible?
  3. Why do some people walk slowly in a row together to block passage of the fast walker behind them, in conjested areas such as sidewalks, hallways, gym tracks, and so on?
  4. Why do slow walkers take offense when fast walkers pass them?
If anyone can solve this enigma for me, Ive got a Golden Ticket with your name on it.
Nov 23, 2009

Just Another Manic Monday


Monday is always an interesting day for me. Monday is like the appetizer that you get that sets the tone for the rest of meal. Sometimes, that appetizer comes out just in time, it's hot, delicious, and everything gets a decent portion and eases the hunger until you can dive into the main course. Sometimes, that appetizer comes out late, it's cold, everyone at the table is anxious/disgruntled/arguing with each other/pist off at the waitress/etc., and the about 30 seconds later the appetizer is followed up with the entree. In other words, the ill-fated delivery of the appetizer has ruined the mood, set the animosity at the table on fire, and no matter how good it is, it ruined the big steak dinner you were thinking about all day. Going with this idea, I can apply the same concept to our friend, Monday. Sometimes, I will wake up feeling good, work will go smooth, and I will get my workout in at the gym. Good enough for me. Sometimes, I wake up dreading work, something happens either on the way to work, or at work, that kind of snowballs into the feeling you get when you're thirsty as Hell and there's nobody around to refill your drink, let alone give you a status update on your freaking appetizer. By this point, working out at the gym is out of the question. Stress kicks in, and I want to get home and chill out, and hope that Tuesday isnt like Monday. This Monday was a mix between the two sides of the spectrum. The morning started off feeling good, but was immediately followed by road rage. Work was meh. Not bad. Not good. Just one of those days where even the simplest of things, even if you bring your A-game, doesn't seem to work for some reason. And it happens over and over again for 8 hours. In the midst of the day, and as I sat there questioning what would surprise me more, the next phone call I had, or if the Loch Ness Monster would slither past my desk, I received a few encouraging messages from my friends. More on that in a moment, but after work, I was able to hit up the gym, and set the tone for the rest of the week, which is always important in the grand scheme of training for a marathon that's coming up in less that two months. With all of that said, I have three awards I would like to give out today.

Award #1. Road Rage Victim of the Day













On my way to work, cruising down 35, in the midst of checking my email, my Spider-sense went off as I noticed a car merging onto the highway. He was going the same speed as me and was just about lined up with my car. As his lane ended, he proceeded to continue merging directly into my lane. So I slammed on my breaks. Laid on the horn. Switched lanes. Pulled up beside him. Gave him the middle finger and the best "Fuck You" look I could conjure up. Whoever said that using cell phones while driving clearly are wrong in this situation, because I definitely had a sense of what was going on. The problem here folks, is that some people are idiots. Anyways, I digress.

Award #2. Father of the Day.




















This award goes out to Mr. Josh Stankovich for the beautiful photo he sent me today. As you can see, in the foreground we have his adorable daughter, Emma. And in the background, we have the Led Zep DVD in full force. Are those little bull horns I see? Well done, Stanko. Well done.











Nov 22, 2009

Bigfoot is Real

A few years ago, a couple of my brother's friends made a drunken report to the National Bigfoot hotline that they had a close encounter with the hairy monster admist a night of drinking cases of Busch Light and celebrating all that is a true sausage-fest. Low and behold, this incident was actually followed up by a genuine Bigfoot expert, and the sighting was documented on the "official" Bigfoot sightings list. In other words, my parents house, on Wildcat Road, in Bethel Township, Ohio, is officially designated as a Bigfoot hotspot. Here is the website that details the findings of that fateful evening: Report # 7718 (Class A)

Brian Peppers

Brian Peppers was born in Maumee, Ohio (suburb of Toledo) on November 1, 1968. Shortly afterward, the Ugly Truck crashed through a nearby wall and backed over his face several times before grinding to a halt, having used up all of its Ugly. His parents were so angry about how he looked that they beat him with an ugly stick in his face over and over.


You Stay Classy, San Diego
















Every once in awhile, I will stumble across a few videos that will make me laugh, regardless of what mood I'm in. For some reason, a lot of these videos happen to center around a little town called San Diego. They named it San Diego, which of course, in German means "a whale's vagina." Here are a few classic San Diego moments that I would like to share with you. Enjoy. And as always, "You stay classy, San Diego."






Nov 21, 2009

Man's Best Friend
















I'm 25 years old. During my life, I have had a few pets, mainly cats and dogs. Cats are all cool and stuff, but dogs seem to be a little more intelligent. They come to you when you call them. They do tricks, they make you laugh, they make you yell at them, but they all seem to have their own personality. Maybe it's just my dogs, but I've noticed that they can sense your mood at the time and react accordingly. If you're happy, they will run circles around the house, chew on stuff, cause any mischeif they can, and all is right in the world. When you are sad, they tone it down, snuggle up next to you, and give you the puppy dog face that tells you, even though they can't talk, that "everything will be OK."

As weird as it may sound, I conisder my pets on the same level as I would another sibling, or even a child. One of our dogs, Joey, died last year of cancer. I really don't deal with death very well on any level, but this was a total kick straight in the balls. The night she died, I remember laying in my bed, and thinking to myself that I was really upset about it, and that I was thinking of how this upsetted me, and how I wouldnt be as upset about this if I was told that some "acquaintance" of mine, a real person, had passed away. In other words, if someone told me that Person XYZ that was a friend of a friend that I knew died, I would be impacted by it, but telling me that one of my dogs died would completely trump that feeling. Maybe it's just the strong connection you have with animals. Maybe its the fact that you spend a lot of time with them on a daily basis. Maybe its the look they give you, good or bad, that everything will be okay.

I would classify my little doggy, Mr. Bo Jangles, as one of my "kids." He's over two years old, and during his reign of terror thus far he has endured a variety of health issues, including blowing out his knee (which required reconstructive surgery), his tail grows inside his ass which would involve a spinal tap-esque surgery if we wanted to correct it, and he has seizures, at least once a week. They used to be on a more frequent basis, but after a new medication, it has seemed to be tamed down to once a week. Regardless, I hold my breath everytime I come home from work and hope to God that he's sitting there waiting to pounce on me, than dead, laying in the corner of the house. I've spent the last year trying to narrow down what could be causing the seizures. Was it spending the weekend with my mom and dad? Was it the piece of cheese I gave him the other day? Was it the fact that I only hung out with him for 3 hours a night instead of 6? Lately, he has had his seizures on Saturdays. Is it possible that perhaps the screaming and yelling I have done at the tv upsets him and causes him to freak out? I'm not really sure.

Last weekend, Michigan played Wisconsin at 12:00pm EST. I woke up at about 11:45am and plopped down on the couch to watch the game. At about 11:57, I wondered where Bo was, because normally he follows me around wherever I go. At 11:59am, I heard his paws clawwing accross my bedroom floor as he sprinted towards where I was sitting. In his mouth he carried his littlle Michigan sweatshirt that he always wears when it is cold, but especially on Saturdays during college football season. So here it is, 11:59, right before kickoff, and here comes my dog running at me, with his own little jersey in his mouth, begging me to put it on him. Excellent.

Earlier today, I watched the OSU v U-M game. For the first two quarters, Bo paced around the house. Pissed off maybe? Nervous? Anxious? Who knows. As soon as halftime kicked in, and Michigan was down 14-3, Bo disappeared into my office. I walked in there, and saw that he had just threw up. He looked up at me, with a big line of drool hanging out of his mouth. Does he really know how I feel at this point, and basically did what I felt like doing? I cleaned his chin up and brought him in the living room for the second half. He slept the entire third quarter. I put his Michigan sweater back on him for the 4th quarter, since I had previously ripped it off him to take him outside to shit. Something inside me told me that maybe by putting this on him, it would be just what we needed to win the game. The 4th came to an end, and Michigan lost. I sat on my couch, trying to figure out what I was actually thinking, and what I might write for my blog. Do I turn my cell phone on? No. Turn I check my email or facebook wall? Nope. Just then, Bo comes up to me, puts his front legs on my shoulders, and gives me the big deep lick kisses that a dog only does when he knows you're feeling down.

As pist off as I was about the game, I was happy that I had my little doggy sitting there with me, cheering me on, and showing compassion for someone that I didnt know was capable of showing compassion. He's been through a lot, and despite all the screaming and yelling I did this afternoon, I'm happy that he didnt have a seizure. For me, it was kind of a wake up call that despite everything going on, football is just a game. Win or lose, I'm satisfied with having Mr. Bo sitting on my lap, happy, with his little Michigan sweatshirt on.

Nov 18, 2009













Michigan won the Big 10 Championship in 2003 and played USC in the Rose Bowl. This all went down during my sophomore year of college. One night after tossing back a few beers, I decided to wager a bet with one of my roommates, Mr. Cheeks.

Now before I continue, let me level set everyone here. I'm not a betting man. I don't like to gamble. I bought one big lotto ticket in my life. I've been to a few casinos, but normally I would get kicked out for being to drunk before I even had the chance to plop down next to the chain-smoking grandma at the nickel slots.

Okay, so I made a bet with A Da Cheeks. And this was the bet: If Michigan beats USC, then Cheeks has to rock out a Civil War mustache to the first day of class in the upcoming winter semester. If USC beat Michigan, then I would have to wear a Civil War mustache to class on the first day. After we shook hands and made the blood pact, we also agreed that from that day forward, we would grow out all of our facial hair to intensify the effect of the mustache.

A few weeks later, the Rose Bowl came a knockin'. USC 28. Michigan 14. Fuck my life.

When Christmas break was over and we returned to the dorms, I was mistaken for a werewolf due to the fact that I hadnt shaved in over a month, and something in my DNA causes me to grow hair out of every molecule in my face. So the night before our first day of class, I gassed up the chainsaw and went to work on my face. Basically, I shaved everything from the corner of the lips of my mouth and down off, but left the rest. It was a monstrosity to say the least, and I was overjoyed to have to go to my first day of class looking like some sort of freakish horsebeast.

I get to the classroom and find that there are no desks in the room. Instead, there was a huge circle of chairs like we were about to play musical chairs or something. "Fucking great, just my luck. No hiding in the back. Oh no...everyone gets to look at my idiot facial disaster." To top it off, the teacher insisted on taking a headshot of each student so that he could "match a name with a face." So this bastard busts out his $10,000 zoom lens camera and lines everyone up for a photoshoot. Words can't describe the thoughts running through my head as he zoomed in on my face and snapped the picture.

Two days later, I showed up to this class again. The first thing the prof did was go through a powerpoint slideshow of all the pictures he had taken the class before. And low and behold, there was Col. Kyle Terry, Civil War-football bet losing monster. To hell with this bullshit. There was no way I was putting up with this non-sense. After that class was over, I went up to the teacher and told him I was dropping the class for "personal reasons." And that's exactly what I did. Curse you Civil War mustache, curses!




Nov 16, 2009














Last night I watched a documentary on the National Geographic channel about shrinking heads. Apparently, there was an Amazonian tribe back in the day that consisted of warriors that would practice the art of head shrinking as a way to induce fear into their enemies. This practice was long since forgotten, and almost Urban Legend status, until a video from the 60's surfaced that displayed several shrunken heads on stakes around the huts of a the Shaur tribe, in the heart of the Amazon.

The show then went into detail on how to shrink a head. Basically, you take the head of your victim, and cut off all the skin around the skull. Then then boil that for about 30 minutes. Then you stuff that full of hot sand and rocks (to keep the shape of a face, duh!) and repeat the process several times over a week period. After this time, the head will be about a quarter of it's original size. Then you have to sew the eyes shut, and shove wooden sticks through the lips so that the poor fella's soul can't escape.

Pretty interesting stuff, and it fascinates me that this was still practiced by certain cultures. They interviewed the chief of the Shaur tribe, who said the "reducing" as they call it isn't really practiced today. However, there is a mining company near their tribe that is extracting gold, and the chief threatened the miners with some good ole' head shrinking fun, although he never had to resort to such dire consequences.

I was amazed at this photo I saw last year sometime.


I wonder what these guys were thinking when they saw the helicopter fly over. I for one, would have been pretty creeped out. Oh well, just a random thought. I'm lacking some sort of clever pun to close this up with, but if something comes to me, I'll be sure to add it. Now that's using your head!



Nov 15, 2009

How to: Bathrooms


The image you are staring at right now is not some picture I randomly stole from the Internet. Actually, it's the aftermath of a Halloween party I had during the 2006 reign of terror that just so happened to be my residence during my senior year of college, otherwise known as 224 Kiefaber - "The Carnival of Sin."

Now I could spend days upon days upon days upon days analyzing this photo (and trust me, I have) in regard to how many menstruating hogs were slaughtered minutes before this Kodak moment was snapped, but I would rather spend a little bit of time talkng about something they never teach you in school, something your mommies and daddies never taught you, something you may or may not have picked up on you own...and that is, how to properly conduct yourself while you are trying to piss, shit, and/or puke in a bathroom.

First off, let me get a few things clear. Number One: Girls don't poo or fart. It's all rose petals and pink perfume. I'll argue this until the day I die, and if you've known me long enough, you have probably heard me say this at least once. Number Two: Don't say to yourself, "Ewww he's writing about bathrooms...wtf?!" Hey guess what, it's a fact of life and since it happens on a daily basis, in a variety of places, you might as well be prepared or at least take a little look into a new
perspective. Number Three: Feedback is always appreciated, especially on this topic. I'm not going to cover all the scenarios, so any additions you might want to add will be accepted (unless it contradicts point Number One). Finally Number Four: #1 = pee, #2 = poo, #3 = puke.

Home Sweet Home

This one is pretty simple. If you live alone, you are free to do #1, #2, and #3 at your own free will with little to no interruptions or consequences. You can take your time, leave the seat up, and forget to flush. The only time you might need to break these rules is if you expect company over, in which case you might want to make sure that proper upkeep in maintained and that everything is kept respectable. I try to do the latter all the time, yet I'm not losing sleep on if I left the seat up in case someone might unexpectedly drop by. The same rules apply if you are going over to a friends place, but you might need to keep a few things in mind. Don't piss on the seats, don't forget to flush, and if their married or living with a chick, and the toilet seat was down when you originally went in, put the seat back down. Also, don't accidentally lock yourself in the bathroom if the doorknob is jacked up and everyone is outside, or it might be a long time until someone notices you are missing and is able to come to the rescue. True story.

Public Restooms

Two comments on public restrooms. If your taking a piss with all of your buddies at the same time, spouting out something like "Hey is this where all the Dicks hang out?" or something of the like is perfectly acceptable. If you're by yourself, avoid comments such as that at all costs. Secondly, don't fuck up the urinal game. See the pictures below.


In the first scenario, since you have the bathroom to yourself, it's safe to pick any of the urinals.


In the second scenario, since someone is already taking a leak in Urinal 1, your best option would be to select Urinal 5.


In the third scenario, since someone is in Urnial 1, and the next guy picked Urinal 3 for some reason, then Urinal 5 would again be your best bet. Under no circumstances should you opt to go with Urinal 2.

One last point I would like to make about public restrooms is that sometimes you will run into a time when there is a mass exodus to go to the bathroom at the same time, such as after a movie, and several dudes flood the bathroom at the same time. If all the urinals get snatched up and the last one remaining is the little one that's a foot off the ground for the kid that just learned how to walk/take a piss, and it's obvious that the guy in the one next to it is chuckling at you for leaving you with this one, it is acceptable to state, "Hey that's OK chief, I needed the extra room anyway."

Corporate America

During a given 8 hour day at work, I will consume at least 100 oz. of water. My bladder is about the size of a pea. So that equates to about 10 trips to the restroom on a normal day, at least once every hour. Here's a few observations I've made about Corporate America bathroom experiences, and this doesn't just apply to my current place of employment, but more of a standard procedure, if you'd call it that. First, the bathroom isn't a place I really want to socialize in. I get my business done, wash my hands, and I'm on my way. I won't pipe up a conversation with the random guy I see in the hallways every once in awhile unless he says something first. And that's normally followed up with a "yeah, dirka dirka dirka, welp have a good one." It's also not my place to comment on the Havana Omelet someone is dropping in one of the stalls, or the dualing fart banjo's that I'm hearing take place between stalls one and two. I'm definitely not going to proclaim "Oh yea baby, you sing that song!" and especially not "Hey, is this where the Dicks hang out?" Secondly, I try to do my absolute best not to have to pull a #2 at work. I just don't like it. Refer to Home Sweet Home. However, as the saying goes, "When you gotta go, you gotta go." So when this happens, I try to seek out a secluded place accross the building, on a different floor, and/or on a remote island somewhere, so that I'm not to be disturbed.

Port-A-Johns

Probably the most disgusting things ever. Ladies, I feel for you on this one. Try not to touch anything, hold your breathe while your in there, and get out as soon as you can. Also don't forget to lock the door, because if there's 100 people waiting in line to be in the position you're in, you don't want someone flinging the door to expose your backside (or worse) for all to see. But make it quick, there's no reason to be fucking around in there.

Road Trips

If you are driving long distances, and have to stop frequently to compensate for the big gulps you are inhaling, try to stop out a familiar fast food joint. I watched an entire special on McDonalds one time and discovered an interesting fact. They did a study back in the day and found out that keeping their bathrooms clean has a big impact on their bottom line, so they do their best to make sure that their bathrooms don't look like the bathroom scene out of Desperado. So if you have to stop anywhere, that's where I would suggest. Gas stations can be shady and rest stops are even shadier.

Stadiums

Stadium bathrooms are a beast of their own and an inevitable tradition at halftime. Each are unique, but basically compromise all of the above rules. Get in and get out. Keep your head up and having fun pissing in the pig trough. If the stadium is operational sound, you should be able to get in, find a spot as soon as an opening presents itself, get your business done, and wrap it up. Avoid looking at the little kid that drops his pants down to his ankles (although I can't help but laugh when I see it happen, out of my peripheral vision of course, because I was the same way when I was little).

College Parties

I don't know who destroyed my bathroom in reference to the picture at the top, but if I find you, it won't be pretty. Try not to do that again.